Domesticity
by angelwingz21
Summary: A successful relationship is based on meeting each other halfway. Then there's the Joker and Harlequin's version. Let's pause the game for a bit, shall we? AU. Part of the "A Killer Joke" universe.


Official Author's Disclaimer: The Batman Universe belongs to DC and Warner Brothers.

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><p>This one-shot is set a few days after the Joker escapes from Arkham in A Killer Joke. You don't have to read it to understand this, but it would help with knowing where their dynamics come from.<p>

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><p>A successful relationship is based on meeting each other halfway. Then there's the Joker and Harlequin's version. Let's pause the game for a bit, shall we? AU. Second in the "A Killer Joke" series.<p>

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><p>.<p>

DOMESTICITY

A HARLEQUIN/JOKER FANFICTION

SET IN THE "A KILLER JOKE" UNIVERSE

BY ANGELWINGZ21

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><p>What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?<p>

Breathing accelerates, tension builds. Hackles rise and muscles twitch. Heat spreads, angry red, over expanses of pale skin. There's perspiration, beading on the temples and upper lips. There is hair everywhere, curly, and pale, and dirty, and greasy, and it feels satisfyingly good twisted around clawed fingers. There's a blur of color: red, and purple, and black, and green, and blue, and white, and smiley faces seem to laugh at them. Or it could be the thumping of their own hearts keeping rhythm with the white noise buzzing in their ears. One set of pupils dilate while another narrows to pinpricks.

The immovable object is a stubborn mind. Set into the ways of its chaotic routine. There is no reason to change. No need to strive for betterment. Obstinate. Unbending. Pig-headed.

The unstoppable force is a slender, feminine arm. It's attached to infuriation incarnate. Five fingers curled tightly, making a fist. Inevitable. Inescapable. Relentless. A modern day battering ram.

It is impossible to reach the object without the proper tools, and the force, while strong, is not extraordinary.

Nevertheless, a small fist crashes against a broad nose. The resounding crack of cartilage breaking is sickening.

The Joker still lets out a breathless chuckle as he stumbles back. Blood spurts everywhere. He allows himself to become a heap on the floor while he groans out his pain.

The Harlequin stalks forwards, hands grabbing hold of the collar of his blue button shirt. Her right knuckles are raw.

He rises about an inch off the floor, before she realizes that he's too heavy and lets him fall back. Instead, she sits her entire weight on his diaphragm. He wheezes, she smiles. Her left hand grabs hold of his square jaw, holding it in place. He's choking, it doesn't stop her. Now there's red mixed in with the yellow.

"Your teeth are disgusting," the Harlequin growls out for what feels like the hundredth time.

It's impossible, but the Joker's grin seems to widen more. "_You_ didn't care about tha-t the last couple nigh-ts." It comes out breathless and gargled, and he coughs. It doesn't stop him from wiggling his eyebrows.

"You've been ignoring basic hygiene for too long!" It's a screech, a war cry, the wailing of a twister. She gets off him, he rolls to the side. Blood puddles.

"It's just teeth," he grumbles as he sits up, head tilted back.

"They are rotting away!" She's stalking off, to the other side. The bathroom.

"They're just yellow!" His tone is indignant, his voice is like gravel.

She's come back, holding an object in each hand. One is a first aid kit, the other…

"Then just bleach them!"

He won't look at the box with the pearly white smile. Instead, he focuses on baby blue eyes burning holes into his skin. She's cutting away the excess of a threaded needle, and for a moment he envisions Atropos and her shears.

"Is _that_ what's so-cially ac-cept-able?" he says sarcastically, as she kneels between his legs, takes his nose and sets it in place with a wet-sounding click. A bit more blood rushes out.

"Oh, it's not just getting them white," she starts as she places the tip of the needle over his wound. "There's brushing, and flossing, and goddamn mouthwash." Her tone is snarky as she makes her first stitch.

His traitorous eyes slide towards the box once again. It's an eye-catching purple color. Just like the bruises quickly forming on her left thigh.

"You could get cavities," another stitch, "and then there's erosion," and another stitch, "and infections," and another, "and no one will listen to man with no teeth."

The last one causes a twitch in his cheek. It's always disturbing to look at a man with no teeth.

When she pulls on the thread a little too hard, he deliberately clutches at her thighs, making her hiss. It doesn't stop her from sewing the final stitch.

He looks at her mouth. Pink lips parted to show just a little of an overbite. Still, he can see those teeth are white. Her breath still smells minty; she hasn't had breakfast yet.

She is society's perfection, beauty incarnate, the mask. He is the product of the city's underbelly, grotesquely twisted, the truth no one wants to see. Innocent, sleeping child. Monster in the closet. Quiet, good girl. Hell-bound demon. Exemplary woman. Textbook psychopath. He isn't supposed to look human, to them. The world. The schemers with their plans. That's how the game goes.

The Harlequin has closed the first-aid kit, and she stands up, makes her way to the bathroom again. The Joker does the same, ignoring the dizzy spin of his vision.

She's cleaning her hands in the wash basin, the water pink with his blood. He jostles her to get most of the space and reaches for the hand towel. He dunks it in the basin, and then brings it to his face to clean the mess. When he lowers the towel, he sees her through the mirror, looking at him with a slight frown.

They're a parody o f that famous painting with the farm couple.

"No." His tone his deep. The word is final. It brooks no arguments.

She snorts, and lowers her polka-dot panties to sit on the toilet and pee.

"An arrangement, then," she says as she reaches for the roll of paper.

He thought he'd heard cogs turning. It's the beginning of a plan, he can tell. Nothing solid. Just thought about it while she put everything back into the first-aid kit. But she never says anything without having a great degree of certainty, without mulling it over twice in her head.

He's interested.

"What kin-d?" he asks to the mirror as he continues cleaning his face.

She's silent as she stands, pulls her underwear back up, and flushes the toilet. He knows that look, though. The kind that says that yes, she is in fact walking over to the hellhounds with the intention of setting them loose.

He's very interested.

"You care for your teeth…" she starts while walking out of the bathroom. He follows her, but stops at the entrance, arm resting on the door frame. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, and finally, finally, she grimaces. He smirks.

"And?" he prompts, while moving towards her again. It's his turn to get between her legs.

"…and I'll get you Fear Gas."

His dark eyes narrow and he bares his teeth. "The Ba-t _Man_ destroyed it all. And the plant's gone ex-tinct."

He lifts her tank top and catches sight of the shoe-shaped bruise that begins under her arm and ends before the curve of her hip. He pokes it. She stops breathing.

The ribs are not broken. He lets the tank top fall back down and settles himself besides her.

"Not the one Dr. Crane has asked his old, TV-hating, neighbor lady to care for while he's 'taking part in an investigation in South America'."

The Joker's eyebrows rise.

"I'll get you Fear Gas." It's final. A promise. She always delivers on her promises.

"Deal."

Oh, the possibilities.

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><p>The Joker: Oh, you. You just couldn't let me go, could you?<p>

Me: *hangs head* No, no I couldn't.

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><p>AN: Atropos is the Fate that chooses when and how someone dies, and then cuts their life-thread with her shears.

A/N 2: I read somewhere that dreams about teeth mean changes are a-coming…is that true?

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Please review!


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